they began to dance.

In all these months, Maurice had scarcely touched her hand. Now
convention required that he should take her in his arms: he had
complete control over her, could draw her closer, or put her further
away, as he chose. For the first round or two, this was enough to
occupy him entirely: the proximity of the lithe body, the nearness of
the dark head, the firm, warm resistance that her back offered to his
hand.

They were dancing to the music of the WIENER BLUT, most melancholy gay
of waltzes, in which the long, legato, upward sweep of the violins says
as plainly as in words that all is vanity. But with the passing of the
players to the second theme, the melody made a more direct appeal:
there was a passionate unrest in it, which disquieted all who heard it.
The dancers, with flushed cheeks and fixed eyes, responded
instinctively to its challenge: the lapidary swing with which they
followed the rhythm became less circumspect; and a desire to dance till
they could dance no more, took possession of those who were fanatic. No
one yielded to the impulse more readily than Louise; she was quite
carried away. Maurice felt the change in her; an uneasiness seized him,
and increased with every turn. She had all but closed her eyes; her
hair brushed his shoulder; she answered to the lightest pressure of his
arm. Even her face looked strange to him: its expression, its
individuality, all that made it hers, was as if wiped out.
Involuntarily he straightened himself, and his own movements grew
stiffer, in his effort to impart to her some of his own restraint. But
it was useless. And, as they turned and turned, to the maddening music,
cold spots broke out on his forehead: in this manner she had danced
with all her previous partners, and would dance with those to come.
Such a pang of jealousy shot through him at the thought that, without
knowing what he was doing, he pulled her sharply to him. And she
yielded to the tightened embrace as a matter of course.

With a jerk he stopped dancing and loosened his hold of her.

She stood and blinked at lights and people: she had been far away, in a
world of melody and motion, and could not come back to herself all at
once. Wonderingly she looked at Maurice; for the music was going on,
and no one else had left off dancing; and, with the same of
comprehension, but still too dazed to resist, she followed him up the
stairs.

"It's easy to see you don't care for dancing," she s